


(For you) There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do

by Romennim



Series: Valar's Blessing [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Elven Lore, Fix-It, M/M, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Rituals, soul bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romennim/pseuds/Romennim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo and Thranduil perform <em>Cuil Erthad</em> to save Thorin's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(For you) There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [hobbitstory big bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com) at LJ
> 
> Thanks to my beta, [morena-evensong](http://morena-evensong.livejournal.com), for her quick and fantastic work.

Out of the tent, Bilbo had met Dori coming back from tending to some of Dáin's men and had asked him if he could fetch Thranduil and Bard.

Almost an hour later, everyone had converged back in Thorin's tent: it was still the largest one in the camp and its main occupant wouldn't be aware, nor disturbed, by anything they did. Bilbo could understand the choice, but he still tried to sit in the chairs someone had managed to find with his back to Thorin. He had made his choice and he didn't want his doubts to creep forward again at the sight of Thorin.

He was seated between Balin and Dáin, and in front of him was Gandalf. On the wizard's left, sat Thranduil and his son. To the elves' right sat Bard, who had a slightly puzzled expression, as if he didn't know why his presence had been requested. Bilbo himself didn't know why he had asked for him.

The man kept shooting confused and uncomfortable looks behind the hobbit. At Thorin, Bilbo realized with dismay, probably wondering why they have asked him to meet in the tent of a dying dwarf he didn't really know and had almost battled against. Bard didn't know what was going on, was Bilbo's second realization, but the hobbit decided then and there that he wouldn't be the one to tell him. He didn't know if what they were going to attempt was supposed to be kept secret and he didn't really care at the moment. Surely, though, he wouldn't be the one to explain as he had done for Balin and Dáin. The man would probably be confused, but someone else could fill in the gaps.

Thranduil was the first to speak.

“We can't perform _Cuil Erthad_ here.”

Dáin spoke before Bilbo could.

“Why not?”

Legolas's glance at the Dwarf-King would have made a lot of people cower, but not Thorin's cousin. Despite his son's reaction, Thranduil's voice held a tone of distant, but polite civility.

“This is a barren land. I need a place where the green of the earth is thriving and where nature and the light of the stars embrace.”

Bilbo blinked and he could see in the corner of his eyes the blank expressions on the dwarves' faces. He risked a glance at Gandalf, and as usual the wizard had his familiar half-smile curling his mouth. Maddening man! And, as usual, he also remained silent. At Bilbo's look, he raised an eyebrow. The hobbit snorted to himself. Clearly the wizard was going to limit his intervention. Nothing new.

It was the voice of the last person he expected to speak that broke the silence.

“Is a garden acceptable?” Bard asked the Elf-King, a confused but determined look on his face.

Bilbo wasn't the only one to look at the man with surprise. Even Thranduil's eyes had widened slightly. Legolas was openly looking at the man with a thoughtful look, as if he had gleaned something from the man he had never seen before.

“It would be, yes,” the Elf-King answered. “But it can't be too far.”

He didn't have to explain why. They obviously had to move Thorin, because, despite the spell, he was still at Death's door. They couldn't risk jostling him too much.

“It isn't,” Bard replied. “I remember it from childhood: it is in Dale.”

“But surely Smaug's fire destroyed it!” Balin pointed out.

“We can't be sure, Master Dwarf,” Bard replied. “After all, it was...”

“It was elvish,” finished Thranduil for him, a faraway look on his face. He blinked a moment later, as if realizing only then that he had interrupted someone. “I apologize. But I believe I know the garden you are talking about. Even if Smaug destroyed it, it will have thrived again in the past years.”

“How can you know that?” Bilbo asked, softly, sensing something unspoken between elf and man.

Thranduil didn't respond immediately and an awkward silence slowly filled the tent. Bilbo looked at Gandalf, but the wizard's eyes were trained on the Elf-King. Bard too was looking at the elf, and his expression was tight, as if he was uncomfortable with the line their speech had taken. Bard, Bilbo realized, knew something.

“An elf died there. That garden will live until the end of Arda.”

Legolas' eyes widened.

“You can't do it there, Adar!” he blurted out, and the vehemence of his words seemed to shock even Thranduil who turned towards him. The younger elf flushed and lowered his gaze.

“It is the perfect place, actually.”

With those words, he stood up.

“Prepare King Thorin for travel. We leave in half an hour.”

With that, he slid out of the tent, Legolas in his wake.

***

Two hours later, Bilbo found himself in the most beautiful garden he had ever seen. It was not perfect, far from it; in places one could see the traces of destruction Smaug had left in his wake: a fallen tree, a part of the perimeter wall crumbled down, a scorched bush, a burnt portion of grass... Even the small river was blocked in various points and the flowing water had had to find other paths to run along.

Still, what remained was beautiful and magical beyond words. Bilbo hadn't seen much of Mirkwood and its people's homes, but he had had the chance to explore Rivendell and its luscious gardens and woods. There was something unique here, Bilbo felt, that could awe any soul.

With a strange sort of detachment, he looked at Thranduil kneeling on the earth, Thorin lying in his arms. They had left everyone else outside the garden: the Elf-King had been adamant no one was to come with them, and before anyone could protest he had taken Thorin in his arms from the wagon they had used to carry him here and gone through the door that led to the garden. Bilbo had asked the others to respect the king's wishes and hurried after him. Once at the door, he had turned and given them one, last look. Legolas, Gandalf and Balin had still been there watching him, while Dáin and Bard had begun walking down the street, surveying the damage the dragon had done to that part of the city.

Gandalf had given him an encouraging smile and Bilbo had told himself to stop dallying and had hurried into the garden.

He had stopped almost immediately once inside, totally unprepared for the sight that was awaiting him, but after a moment's pause he had shaken himself and walked forward, looking for Thorin and Thranduil.

And here they were now, a king on his knees with another king in his arms in a garden that was more beautiful and ethereal than any dream given by the Valar

Thranduil gently laid Thorin down and begun pulling off the furs Óin had wrapped him with, until the dwarf was only covered in bandages and a loincloth.

Bilbo flushed. He was on the verge of asking Thranduil what he was doing, when the elf spoke.

“Strip and lie down beside him.”

“What?” he asked, shocked.

Thranduil was still kneeling on the ground beside Thorin, but he didn't need to glance up to look at the hobbit. Bilbo realized, heat creeping onto his cheeks, that their faces were at the same height now.

“Your skin needs to be in contact with the earth, Master Baggins. Therefore you need to strip.”

Dazed, Bilbo nodded and reached for the buttons that were still attached to his coat. Three had survived the battle with the orcs. Then his trousers. Lastly, his mithril chain-mail – that one was the hardest to take off. It had been Thorin's first and last gift to him when they had won Erebor from Smaug. First and last because Bilbo had refused any other precious gift from his beloved, saying a hobbit wouldn't need any of it, that he needed only Thorin's love. Thorin had grudgingly accepted it, but when they had ascertained the royal wing was safe to wander in he had disappeared and then come back with the chain-mail in his hands: it had been his brother's, and in the chaos of Smaug's arrival it had been left in Frerin's chamber where it had stayed until that moment.

Bilbo knew Thorin's younger brother had died in battle and when the dwarf had presented him the gift, he could have never refused it, for a lot of reasons: it was the first gift Thorin had given him that had sentimental value. It was, undoubtedly, a useful gift, but mostly the hobbit knew how much Thorin feared for Bilbo's safety, so he had accepted it.

He hadn't taken it off since then and he had been grateful that the day Thorin had banished him, the dwarf had been so furious that he'd forgotten Bilbo had it. His already broken heart would have shattered completely if he had been forced to give it back.

He tried to take a deep breath. It was only chain-mail after all and, after the ritual, he would wear it again.

After the ritual, he reminded himself, Thorin would live and Bilbo wouldn't need a memento anymore.

Once stripped down to his loincloth, he turned around and approached Thranduil, who only pointed out the portion of grass where he wanted him to lie down.

He did, and looked up at the night sky, the Elf-King still kneeling on the grass at his right, a barrier between him and Thorin, still unconscious to the world. A sudden wave of anxiety grabbed him and all the doubts that had been plaguing him reared their ugly head again. What was he doing here? Was he really going to go through this? No, no, there was still time to stop this! He looked to his right, but Thorin was still hidden from his sight and that made him even more anxious.

_What if he hates me? I can't... I can't bear it! But... but what if he dies?_

That froze his panicking thoughts in their tracks and Bilbo tried to breathe deeply and not let panic grow and overwhelm him.

This was it. They were a few minutes from beginning something that would alter all their lives forever and there was no more space for doubts! He resolutely looked up at the sky, praying everything was going to go well.

The cool touch of Thranduil's hand on his arm brought him back to earth and he turned his head to look at the elf. Bilbo was suddenly struck by the elf's sheer beauty. Nothing of Thranduil had changed, but here, under the light of the stars, embraced by nature born from an elf's life, Bilbo could only stare as he took his fill of the otherworldly beauty. Thranduil's eyes were blue and deep as Anduin, his skin fair as the kiss of the moon and his hair bright as the embrace of the sun.

Bilbo was suddenly hyper-aware of the elf's hand touching his body and the stray strands of hair that were caressing his arm. He flushed and looked away, ashamed of his reaction and the thought of what Thranduil would think if he knew what was going through his head.

“Master Baggins,” the elf's soft voice reached his ears, though it seemed so far away.

After a few moments or an eternity, Bilbo couldn't say, Thranduil squeezed his arm and he forced himself to look back. Thranduil was gazing at him, his face as beautiful as before. His expression, though, was neutral. Bilbo was grateful for it. He took a few deep breaths.

“Master Baggins,” the elf repeated.

“Yes?” he croaked out, his throat dry.

“I will begin _Cuil Erthad_ in a few moments. You just need to close your eyes and let yourself relax. If you feel your thoughts are beginning to drift away or be claimed by sleep, do not worry. You have nothing to do here. Just lie back and stay calm.”

Easier said than done, Bilbo thought bitterly. The sudden shock of the turn his thoughts had taken a few moments before, along with the acute awareness he had now of Thranduil's body a few millimeters from his own, made it impossible for him to calm his frantically-pumping heart.

He closed his eyes, as the elf had asked, and tried to clear his mind, focusing his thoughts on an innocent and relaxing topic. He chose the stream flowing near Bag End where he had spent so many afternoons when he had been a child. He tried to recall it in detail: the gentle slope from the land owned by the Tooks, the little cove where he used to try and catch small fish with his bare hands, the greens that grew along it with their bright and colorful flowers in the summer...

A foreign, but gentle voice slowly crept into his memories, as if it had always been there throughout all the summers of his childhood. It was softly whispering words Bilbo didn't understand, but it didn't matter. Their meaning wasn't important, because the words, their nature was sweet and kind, akin to a warm summer's day. It was the whisper of the cool breeze from the North, it was the dancing sound of river streaming down, it was the perfume of the flowers growing and thriving under the sun. It was there and everywhere, filling and pouring out of every living thing.

It was timeless and magnificent and Bilbo feared his heart would burst from joy and the beauty of everything. He wanted to lose himself in it. He did.

***

Thranduil let himself enjoy for a moment the nature surrounding him. He could feel it: Aredhel had been gone for centuries by now, but something of her still dwelt in the garden where she had given birth and died, and the chance to feel it was a joy. He found himself wondering why he had never come here, but he knew he was fooling himself. He knew exactly why and he had been right to stay away: it was painful to be here and be reminded that she and Artanis were gone. He had loved both of them, and they were forever out of reach. It was something he didn't think he would ever accept and staying here, in _their_ garden, was only pouring salt into a wound that would never heal.

For what he had come here to accomplish, though, the lingering touch of Aredhel was a blessing. Thranduil could feel his senses reach out to the earth and the light of the stars, enveloped and eased by the familiar touch of the souls that had loved this corner of Arda.

He let himself relax and forget the pain this place reminded him of and focused on the here and now, on the feel of cool air on his skin, on the sound of running water and rustling leaves. He let himself feel the joy Aredhel had brought him and with a calm heart he began to recite the words of a ritual Arda had heard only twice before, once from the lips of the Valar themselves and once in an attempt to prolong life.

The words, forever impressed in his memory, slid easily from his mouth, like honey on glass, and their timeless meaning was taken by the air around him and joined the grass beneath him and the moonlight above him.

He reached for the Dwarf-King's hand and grasped it tightly in his own. On his other side, he did the same with the hobbit's. He brought their hands together in front of him and clasped them in his own, a gesture and a symbol of the path they would soon be taking.

With his hands full, tightly grasping the hands of the beings who were going to be the anchor to his body, he let his mind and thoughts drift, and his life reach out, his soul wandering away, trying to find the two it soon had to join forever.

And there they were, close and bright as the sun at the height of summer. He could feel them, kind and pure, in their imperfection. It was there, like a gray taint. They were shining, both of them, but one was too weak and tested, the other stronger but worn out. The sudden, unbearable desire to reach out and cradle them to himself was frightening in its intensity. He couldn't just take them. Their souls were too weak compared to his and the danger of damaging them with his strength too high.

 _But you can,_ a voice whispered to him. _You can! Grab them. Take them for yourself._

No, no, he couldn't. They would die.

 _No, they won't. I will not let them die,_ the same voice told him, dark and reassuring, _they are yours to take. Everything here is yours to take. The dwarf's life is in your hands to save._

_Save him and he will be bound to you. He will be grateful. He will give you everything you want. You'll have everything your heart desires. Everything you deserve._

And before him the vault of Erebor was open and rivers of gold were everywhere, flowing, almost bursting from the walls. So much gold, so much! And it was all his.

He could do everything with so much wealth. And suddenly everything changed and many soldiers were in front of him, faceless, their race forgotten, slaying the spiders who threatened his home. The spiders.. dead, dead all of them! Dead and gone the threat that had plagued his woods for so long! And his people safe – as he had always craved – and grateful to their king.

Their king, strong and sure, at the head of an army, an army securing peace everywhere, a king leading thousands of thousands against...

He could see himself on his mount at the front, resplendent in his armor, just like his father before him, in front of an almost identical army to the one that had fought the foul hordes of Sauron...

Sauron! Sauron was fire, evil, pain, insanity, and his father bleeding to death in his arms while battle raged all around them...

His eyes snapped open and a sudden sickness made him fall over, until his forehead touched the wet ground with a thud and the scent of grass filled his nostrils.

What...?

His thoughts were fuzzy, but he felt the sick touch of evil deep within his mind and heart all the same. The warmth lent to him by the hands he was still grasping and the familiar presence of the light shining from the stars were not so easily defeated, though, and they helped him dispel the last traces of the dark voice from his mind.

When he finally thought he had his breath under control, he pulled back and looked first at the Dwarf-King, then at Bilbo Baggins. With surprise, he realized the hobbit was looking right at him, even if his expression was lightly dazed.

“Are you all right?” Bilbo slurred out, as if sounding drunk.

The effect of the words of _Cuil Erthad_ , Thranduil realized. The hobbit was drunk on the magic of nature. It was a wonder he had come out of it on his own.

“Yes,” he tried to reassure him, seeing as Bilbo was becoming more and more worried, his eyes trying to look past him, almost frantically.

It took Thranduil too much to understand why.

“He is alive, Mr Baggins. No need to fret.”

The hobbit looked him in the eyes, gaze intense and probing, as if trying to read the truth from his eyes.

“Trust me,” Thranduil said, and while he realized the hobbit wouldn't trust him if he were in his right mind, it was the right thing to say when Bilbo was not thinking clearly.

The hobbit nodded.

“Are we done?” he asked, a touch of hope in his voice.

“No, we are not.”

Bilbo nodded again, as if it was completely logical.

Thranduil found himself compelled to ask something himself.

“Why are you awake?”

The hobbit gave him a puzzled frown, then he bit his lower lip and tried to answer.

“The river...” he slurred. “The sun... wasn't right. Too dark, too cold... Evil.”

Thranduil didn't wholly understand, but the gist was clear. Something had intruded into the happy thoughts _Cuil Erthad_ 's words had taken him to and he had resurfaced from them.

Something evil.

Thranduil's gaze snapped up and scanned the area, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the garden. Everything was as when he had stepped inside. He closed his eyes and let himself feel the air, the world around him.

And there, there it was! A dark, ugly whisper in the order of the garden. It wasn't as strong as when it had been whispering in his mind, but enough for him to detect it.

He let go of Bilbo Baggins and King Thorin's hands, grimacing at the sudden sense of loss. Clearly the ritual hadn't been finished, but it had been far enough along for him to feel the loss of their lives touching his own.

He quickly stood and walked in the direction from where he had sensed the presence. He found himself looking down at the hobbit's clothes. With a frown, he leaned down and took the coat in his hands.

A sudden spike of hatred and anger overwhelmed him, and Thranduil shook the garment. A golden ring fell out from a pocket. Thranduil stared at it, shock and disbelief overwhelming any other thought.

The One Ring. The One Ring of Sauron was lying at his feet.

***

He couldn't touch the thing. He couldn't risk it. It was too powerful and he didn't want to think of how much more persuasive it could be if it touched his skin, when its reasoning and whispers had been so seductive and tempting during the ritual.

Thranduil shuddered, recalling the maddening temptation the Ring had been able to raise within him with a few images, with a few promises. Just looking at it was like being a step away from falling into temptation, dark whispers titillating his ears.

Clearly he couldn't try to perform the ritual again with it here and risk falling to its allures. He gingerly reached down and picked it up, careful to hold it with the fabric of the coat. He wrapped it up and, with a deep sigh, walked to the garden entrance.

Mithrandir would guard it.

***

His task done and the dangerous package left in the wizard's capable hands, he had returned.

He knelt again between the dwarf and the hobbit, taking their hands.

Bilbo Baggins shot him a smile, clearly still out of it. Thranduil knew he wouldn't have received such a warm gesture otherwise.

He took a deep breath and began once again to recite the words of the ritual. He prayed to the Valar that this would be their second and last attempt – and that it was going to succeed. He had escaped the Ring's temptation. He hoped it would count for something, if only to show that he was, at least, worthy of a second chance.

This time, he was prepared for the sudden craving for Bilbo and Thorin's lives, and gently he approached and took them into himself. He felt the gentle touch of the hobbit's life and the steely determination of the dwarf's. They merged with him as if they were always meant to be there and a sweet hope filled him, mending something broken deep inside. His life shone brighter intertwined with theirs and they were one.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Cuil Erthad_ from _Cuil_ , life, and _Erthad_ , union.  
>  _Adar_ : father.


End file.
